


Repentance

by Yùu (Yuutfa)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuutfa/pseuds/Y%C3%B9u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> He couldn’t remember what the catalyst was that triggered off the chain of events nor did he particularly care, but somehow, he, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective, had ended up handcuffed to the headrest of a certain army doctor’s bed. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repentance

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wanted this to be a PWP. It uh… didn’t turn out that way. I don’t know what happened, honestly.

He couldn’t remember what the catalyst was that triggered off the chain of events nor did he particularly care, but somehow, he, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective, had ended up handcuffed to the headrest of a certain army doctor’s bed. At the edges of his mind, he faintly recalled the success of a case, and for the first time in weeks, John had smiled at him. For the first time since he had returned, John was looking at him and was smiling at him like he used to; as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world. Sherlock hadn’t wanted the moment to end, he didn’t want John to revert back to the cold indifference he had adorned these past painful weeks, so he had done something rash and impulsive.

 

He had kissed him.

 

And from there, everything spiralled out of control. Soft brushes of the lips had devolved into pure unadulterated lust. Teeth, the taste of blood, shirts being shed in the corridor and frustration; gasps and moans that mingled together, Sherlock may not have remembered the events, but the sensations were clearer and sharper than any cocaine induced high.

 

Shallow breaths stuttered out of his parted lips as he peered up at the man above him. Through half mast eyes, he stared into hardened ones, filled with an emotion that he could not identify. Hurt? Frustration? Hesitation? All of these and more. The gaze was distant, contemplative and as Sherlock’s impatience grew, he shifted his wrists and the sound of metal chains echoed throughout the room.

 

“John...?” he asked. He didn’t want to push this, as desperate as he was. One little thing could break what they had. One little thing could make John leave for good. His chest constricted and his lungs failed him for a few scant seconds.

 

From between Sherlock’s legs, John shifted back and looked away. “What am I doing?” he muttered. “This is a mistake, sorry.”

 

In blind panic, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of. He hooked his legs around John’s waist and pulled him forward.

 

“W-wha—”

 

“Stay.” He didn’t need to add the word ‘please’ after it, the tone alone was enough.

 

“Sherlock, this isn’t right,” John said softly. Sherlock was blessed with the small victory that John hadn’t tried to move away.

 

“And what _is_ right?” he demanded. “To pretend that it never happened? To go back to tip-toeing around each other as if we were walking on broken glass?” The bite in his voice died in an instant when he saw the reaction it invoked. The fire inside him smouldered and he turned his head. “Don’t leave,” he whispered. He despised the weakness he felt, he despised that his _feelings_ had caused him to be at the mercy of this man.

 

He despised knowing that if John left him, he would break.

 

There was a beat of silence and then another, before John spoke. “You’re mad, you know that? Absolutely barmy.” There was an inhale, then a long exhale. “And when you were gone, everything felt so empty.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, to apologise, to say _something_. No words came out. John didn’t notice.

 

“And then, one day, you just came back and I thought, ‘it’s official, I’ve gone crazy.’ When I realised that you weren’t a figment of my imagination, I...” John trailed off, searching for the right words. Sherlock could only watch as that pink sliver darted out to wet those thin lips; he was comforted to know that it was one habit that had no changed in their time apart.

 

“I couldn’t stand being in the same room as you. I was just so mad at you...”

 

Sherlock stilled. Had he really disgusted John so much? To have driven him away to such an— Who was he kidding? He knew he had, it was as clear as day and he was anything but blind. But nothing had been mentioned, he wanted to live in blissful ignorance, even if it ached so, so much. However, that was all over, wasn’t it?

 

He loosened his grip, now John had a choice to leave if he wanted. To leave him handcuffed to the bed, to walk out the door of 221B and to never come back. Wasn’t that the human thing to do? To give the other party a choice? See? He was learning. He was learning to be a decent human being because that was what John wanted. He had learnt to be a decent human being so he could come back to John and be a friend he was proud of.

 

Too bad he learnt this all too fucking late.

 

John hadn’t moved back, instead, he moved forward, drawing in close till they were a mere breath apart. “I was so alone.”

 

Sherlock’s lips parted but nothing came out; all the words he wanted to say had died, all he could do was stare, unblinking at the only person who mattered. It was with great effort, he swallowed, the only indication that he wanted John to continue.

 

“And I wanted you more than ever.”

 

Sherlock’s smile was shy before he leaned up to close the distance between them. A soft kiss, chaste, nothing like the carnal lust from before. “If you still feel that way, I believe that you’re in a fairly good position,” Sherlock smirked as he rattled the handcuffs above his head once more.

 

Hesitation flickered in John’s eyes. “Are you sure? I mean, we can wait—”

 

And just like that, they had fallen back into their old familiar dance. Their trust a little less fragile, the trepidation a little less tangible and so Sherlock fell back to his old, familiar demanding self. “John, shut up and get on with it.”

 

And there it was again. That smile that made the hollow feeling in his chest blossom with warmth, that smile that John shared with no one else but him. There was the smile he fell to protect.

 

Sherlock felt as if he was drowning. His thoughts were sluggish when those warm hands trailed down his sides, his senses mutated when those lips captured his over and over again. Lines of fire lingered with every touch, the air in his lungs stolen with every nip and bite. It was slow and careful, but Sherlock was anything but impatient. How could he be? He wanted every moment to last and a swift, hard fuck would end far too soon.

 

A low guttural moan was ripped from his throat when John’s mouth clamped over a nipple. His teeth squeezing the nub before moving back to lap at the injured flesh, all the while, his other hand teased the opposite side; only moving it aside when his head moved to repeat his previous actions.

 

It was only through prolonged teasing did Sherlock begin to rethink his previous opinion. To be lavished attention was wonderful, no doubt about that, but his body yearned for more, demanded release. His wrists tugged at the metal that bound him, made him question why he thought it was a good idea in the first place. And as John straddled his hips, what else could Sherlock do but to thrust up?

 

Oh God, no human should make a noise that arousing.

 

Electricity coursed through his veins and a surge of pleasure followed after. More. He wanted more. Strong hands dropped to his waist, compact legs squeezed at his sides and then, with a slow roll of his hips, Sherlock felt his mind go blank.

 

Rough denim on ironed cotton pressed down again and again. No, it wasn’t enough, too confining, not enough skin contact. More, he needed _more_. Sherlock opened his mouth wide, to demand, implore, _anything_ that would increase the intimacy between them; a tongue was shoved roughly against his. Gone were the sweet innocent kisses and in its place, burning lust. Sherlock eagerly returned the attentions, craning his neck forward to chase after John’s mouth, his tongue darting out to swipe at the bruised lips.

 

For future reference, Sherlock did _not_ whine when John pulled away. Nor did he curse when John undid the button on his flies.

 

Designer trousers were unceremoniously shoved down to his knees and from where he lay, Sherlock was able to see the bulge straining against the fabric of his underwear. He felt damp. He probably was.

 

John’s gaze was predatory, his pupils blown from under those hooded eyes. With a torturous pace, his hand came forward to the bulge, his index finger tracing the wet patch that had formed. Increasing pressure at irregular intervals, he was pleased that he had driven Sherlock to such base desires.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes, unsure of when he had closed them, to see John’s shoulder in front of him and to feel a hot breath against his ear.

 

“Mouth or hand?” Came the low, sensual rumble.

 

Sherlock shivered and swallowed thickly. “M-mouth.” He was rewarded with a husky chuckle and a quick playful bite to the earlobe before the good doctor pulled away.

 

Time seemed to slow when John tugged his briefs away, pulling them away with his trousers and throwing them carelessly to the side. John’s hands came up to grasp at his hips, his breath thick and heavy over the tip of his rigid cock. Lining up his mouth with the length, Sherlock could only watch as that sinful tongue peaked out to lick away the thick bead of pre-ejaculate. A few more licks around the head was enough to have Sherlock whispering a string of profanities and when it came to actually having John’s mouth around him, Sherlock very nearly screamed.

 

Down and down, that hot moist heat sank. Sherlock gasped, his hands clutching at air as he did his best to thrust up; foiled by the strong hands keeping him down. John couldn’t fit all of him into his mouth, but he expertly worked with what he had. A swirl of the tongue here, a powerful suck there and when one hand slipped off his hip to grasp at the base of his erection, it took all of Sherlock’s will to keep his eyes open.

 

Each slide was slow and deliberate, John’s lips were stretched obscenely wide over the hard length and as his head bobbed back and forth, Sherlock could only watch. A thin coating of saliva formed, sucked away by the hollowed cheeks but soon replaced by the languid licks and teasing twirls of his tongue. When John’s fingers twisted the base and he was swallowed down once more, Sherlock was more than half out of his mind.

 

“S-stop, John, stop!”

 

John instantly pulled away as if he had been burned. Cheeks flushed, a thin line of spit dribbling out the corner of his mouth and looking thoroughly debauched, Sherlock had never wanted a man more.

 

His voice was rough when he spoke. “I-I’m sorry, should we—”  

 

“No,” Sherlock cut off. He inhaled deeply, forcing air into his abused lungs before he continued. “I don’t want to come like this.”

 

John’s eyes widened and the flicker of doubt crept onto his face once more. “Sherlock, think carefully about this...”

 

How could he think carefully when the man he wanted looked so ravished? It was like telling a starving lion not to eat the meat dangling in front of it. Sherlock shifted up, so he didn’t have to crane his head forward to meet John’s eyes and invitingly, spread his legs. “Please,” he pitched his voice low, made sure that the singular word dripped with _need_.

 

He watched the skin on John’s throat shift and directed his gaze at the very noticeable bulge straining against the denim. He whined quietly, moving his body lower, making it clear how much he wanted all of this.  

 

John flushed a darker shade of red but nodded, shifting forward, he reached for the bedside table drawer and pulled out the small bottle of lube; hesitating shortly when he realised something of considerable importance. Sherlock heard a muted swear.

 

It was easy to see what it was, even in his lust-addled state. “It doesn't matter.”

 

John blinked, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape. Oh God, he wanted that mouth. Sherlock needed to taste him again, feel him again, he needed _him._ “But—”

 

“Fuck me.”

 

The words had their desired effect. John’s pupils were blown and with that full body shudder, there was a poorly concealed moan. There were no more delays, no more hesitations when he uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount onto his fingertips. Rubbing the viscous liquid between thumb and fingers, he circled Sherlock’s hole with the tip of his forefinger; teasing but also warning him of what to come.

 

Biting his lip, Sherlock merely nodded and gasped when the tip sank in. It had been a while, almost a decade, since he last had this feeling of penetration. Sherlock Holmes was not a sexual being; prefering to divorce himself from such banal desires but now, as that finger slowly pumped in and out, he decided that he was a lunatic for ever thinking such things. His eyes fluttered shut and there wasn’t enough air in his lungs when John whispered his name; saying it as if it were a prayer.

 

The muscles relaxed and soon, Sherlock found himself moving down to meet the intrusion. His hips jerked and a low moan escaped him when he felt the second finger teasing him open. No, his previous thoughts were wrong once again. To do this, it could only be with John and no one else. If not John, then no one at all.

 

“A-ah— John!” Sherlock gasped. Breathe, he needed to breathe, but how could he when those thick, blunt fingers insisted on rubbing at that gland that short-circuited his brain? The stroking was relentless and though it was an arbitrary observation, Sherlock could see that he was leaking again, more freely than before. He was being driven to wits end.

 

A third finger left him begging to be taken.

 

“God, do you have any idea how fucking gorgeous you look right now?”

 

Sherlock peered beneath his lashes, his lithe frame twitching at every brush of those fingers; unable to trust his voice, he shook his head. He was faintly aware of the moisture at the corner of his lips, oh, had he forgotten how to swallow? If he had been in any state, he would’ve degraded himself but he had gone far past the point of caring. His eyes were drawn to the fingers currently buried inside him; oh, that sight alone was almost enough to tip him over the edge. How would he last when John was inside him? Thrusting into him with such valour, crying out his name as he lost himself?

 

John’s free hand came to cup his cheek and with a gentle kiss, John rested his forehead against his. “Calm down a little, we don’t want this to end too early, right?”

 

Sherlock shook his head and eyed at the jeans, mentally wishing them away. Dear Lord, wasn’t John bursting right about now? He must’ve been.

 

Catching the line of vision, John laughed and pulled back, slowly slipping the fingers out. Smiling boyishly when he heard the disappointed whine. He shucked off the jeans and underwear, revealing the red swollen cock slapping against his stomach.

 

Sherlock felt himself salivating at the mere sight of it.

 

With eager eyes, Sherlock watched as lube was slathered over the arousal and all too readily lifted his hips when John reached forward to grab them. The tip teased his stretched hole and it took every fibre of Sherlock’s being not to shift down and impale himself on the length. The handcuffs stopped him from doing so.

 

John leaned forward, his lips brushing over Sherlock’s as he slowly pushed in. The burn was slight at first, but as more and more of John entered into him, Sherlock found that he was losing whatever sense he had left. The stretch was uncomfortable but he hadn’t minded in the slightest, in fact, he craved it. The pain was a wonderful anchor; reminded him that this wasn’t a dream, reminded him that this wasn’t some desperate fantasy he had fabricated. John was doing this because he had forgiven him. After this, John wouldn’t look at him with cold eyes, would he? He wouldn’t look like a shadow of his former self? Their bond of trust, it was okay now, wasn’t it?

 

The stab of pain told him that it’d all be just fine.

 

John’s teeth nipped at the shell of his ear, whispering profanities as he began to move. It was slow at first, as expected. With every sudden movement, simultaneous moans were drawn out and there was a need for pause. Too much, too soon, Sherlock thought as he twitched around John. At the same time, not enough. No more hesitation, no more waiting, Sherlock gritted his teeth and shoved his weight down, taking the whole of John into him.

 

“Fuck!”

 

Who was it that said that? Sherlock wasn’t sure anymore, that tip was rubbing against that one spot that reduced him to unintelligible slur. He moved up and slammed back down again; John seemed to take the hint.

 

The next few minutes were a haze of lust and passion. Sherlock remembered fire running through his bloodstream, the sweat-slicked slides of John’s body as they moved in tandem, the guttural moans and the desperate pleas. He remembered euphoria blurring his mind and the sharp burst of pleasure when John took him into his hand and began to stroke. Too much but not enough. Sherlock cried out when that coil of tension snapped; it was the end, he thought. His lungs had been emptied of air, his cry was silent when he spilled over John’s hand. In response, John stilled, cursing as Sherlock clamped so tightly around him and milked him of every drop of release.

 

The room was filled with heavy breathing and the strong, unmistakable scent of sex. And Sherlock wouldn’t have had it any other way.

 

He slowly opened his eyes, his heart still pounding and only now, did he register the dripping between his thighs and the softening cock still inside him. When John began to pull away, Sherlock reached forward, wanting to keep him in place, wanting to keep John inside him forever. He wanted them never to separate, to become one singular entity so no circumstance could ever take John away from him again.

 

The sound of metal on wood foiled his plans and John slipped out of him.

 

Sherlock was unable to stop the disappointed groan. When he was met with a chuckle, Sherlock lifted his gaze from the release pooling round his hole and to John, who was now brushing his hair from his face.

 

“I couldn’t stay in you forever,” John murmured with a soft kiss to his forehead.

 

‘Why not?’ Sherlock wanted to ask but found he hadn’t the energy to. He almost protested when John cleaned off the mess around his thighs; he wanted to keep a part of John inside him, if not his heart then at least his semen.

 

Oh, perhaps that was a bit not good, he realised when the words died on his open lips. Luckily, John had interpreted it as a need to be kissed; that worked too.

 

Eventually, the handcuffs were undone and Sherlock was pulled into a slow, lazy embrace which he had no trouble returning. And as they drifted off into the land of sleep, there was only one singular thought in Sherlock’s overworked mind.

 

He was never going to let John go.


End file.
